


Loneliness Is The Coat You Wear

by Lothlorienne



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:18:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lothlorienne/pseuds/Lothlorienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the film Truly, Madly, Deeply, which made me quite emotional, tyvm.<br/>Sherlock was buried months ago, but John keeps hearing his voice nevertheless. Things get complicated when a dead man shows up - and a woman named Mary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This film, you guys. Blame it on Alan Rickman wearing a long black coat, or blame it on my obsession with the show, all I know is this had to be written.  
> Since this is basically a re-telling of the film, every chapter tends to be quite short - movie scenes cut quickly, chapters reach their end soon. That's why I suggest you go straight for the "entire work" reading suggestion, so you can enjoy those small breaks between chapters without wasting too much time clicking links.

“I had forgotten how depressing the Tube can be. But now that cabs have gotten too expensive for me, it’s all coming back. Everyone’s just sitting there, all looking equally miserable. I guess that should be a good thing. Some peace and quiet. But it just feels enclosed. And stuffy. And those bodies moving with the same rhythm, leaning when we stop, leaning when we depart… Hell, sometimes I’d prefer a Pinzgauer; back then, at least we had a reason to look that grim.” John smiles apologetically, is that a strange thing to say? But Ella doesn’t react, never reacts, hasn’t even written anything down so far, so that must be good.  
“It never happens when there are other people around, you know. But afterwards, when I’m walking home, he’ll start talking to me. ‘Did you notice the loose threads on her skirt, John? Of course I’m referring to the brunette, she was sitting more or less across from you. She was flirting – you have no idea who I’m talking about, do you? John, I was hoping you had become a bit more observant after spending so much time with me.’ Or more personal stuff, like, ‘there are still a few cases you haven’t yet blogged about. Remember Violet Hunter, and that one time you punched a dog in the face? I was afraid I’d wet myself, good God, I hadn’t laughed like that in ages.’”  
He smiles at the memory. Ella keeps a poker face. Her total ignorance concerning those untold cases is slightly irritating to John. Maybe he doesn’t _want_ to write about that case. Or any of them. Maybe he wants to keep them all to himself, like small, hidden gems. Nowadays, he doesn’t particularly feel like sharing them with anyone, not if they can no longer be shared with- hmm. Right. Therapy. He’ll need to stay focused. Not let his mind wander too much. Just talk, give her an update and then go back home.  
“Sometimes, he speaks French. I never understood much of it, but now I’m learning. At night, I’ll often sit there, alone, thinking about all sorts of things, when I suddenly hear his voice again, and – it helps. So I close my eyes and listen to him, rambling on about some case the Yard can’t wrap their heads around… and then he’s not there anymore.”  
“And then how do you feel?”  
John takes a sip of water while contemplating his answer.  
“Okay. Fine. Less alone, I suppose. Even if he’s only talking rubbish. Complaining about the state of my flat: 'T'es vraiment incorrigible, Jean.'”  
He smiles briefly. Ella is frowning. She doesn't understand. Her steady gaze makes him feel uneasy. “John… tell me, how long ago did Sherlock die?”  
He starts to rotate his wrist, swirling the remaining water around.  
“John. Sherlock.”  
Is she purposefully making this harder for him, fishing for answers she knows bloody well? This is just like the first appointment after the whole thing with Moriarty had ended.  
After the whole thing with Sherlock had ended.


	2. Chapter 2

Steady, now… John gingerly lifts six inches of paper, a thin layer of dust, and a plate with a half-eaten sandwich to get a hold of that one folder he’s after. To other people it would look like just any ordinary manila folder. But John remembers it from before, with all its miniscule details, the treasured anecdotes of a previous life. His fingers can seek out the small spot of a different texture, where Sherlock had spilt some tea once. He tries to straighten out the everlasting dog ear at the bottom and scratches at the thinning square inch of paper where the small burn mark is still visible. Sometimes he reckons he can even smell that cigarette – though he can’t identify the exact type of ash anymore.  
When he opens the map, there are a few pages of lines. Very neat, horizontal lines, pressed together in groups of five. Those pages fall like leaves on the slightly crowded floor. They remind John too much of flatlines.  
The next fifty or so pages have entire compositions of heartbeats dotted across, always with a cursive chicken scratch title at the top and more guidelines and impressions scrawled wherever possible. John can still read music from his clarinet days. Keeping the composer’s notes in mind would probably make his occasional little concerts better, but without an audience, what does it matter, really.  
He leafs through a few creations while reminiscing and briefly reliving the moments of their manifestation. ‘Noble Bachelor’, ‘Aluminium Crutch’, ‘Copper Beeches’, ‘Blind Banker’, a more musical form of blog entries, all held together in his hands. Some are hard to read, but John can now easily find the most intriguing composition, located exactly where Sherlock had kept it before – between ‘London Dawn’ and ‘The Science Of Deduction’.

‘John’.

He clears his throat before he starts to read. John already knows the melody by heart, but always feels the necessity to follow the paper’s guidance nonetheless. He has given up his attempts to decipher the words written in the sidelines – and the ones between the staff-lines, and the frustratingly unreadable scribbles between the black dots. Only the creator knew how this secret treasure was meant to sound. John feels he’s bound to get it right some day, if he just keeps trying every possible variation he can think of.  
Today is not that day. After a few minutes he gives up. Should be getting ready for his shift.

**Author's Note:**

> Britpic, beta'ing and concrit are welcome, as always.


End file.
